3:22 AM

It is 3:22 AM
And she can’t get to sleep:
So she goes to her kitchen
Where, all boxed up in a heap

The Christmas decorations are
That she has long accrued.
She hasn’t even opened them,
She’s not been in the mood.

Deciding, she then opens one
There’s a toy village there:
She puts together all its parts
With noticeable care.

Or, it would be noticed, if
She wasn’t there alone.
This village has been hers since, oh
Before her kids were grown

Or even out of high school;
But, that was some years ago.
She looks at all the tiny lights,
The people, and fake snow —

Remembering the magic of
A world transformed by light:
The music of a heart
That didn’t lie awake at night.

And when the morning came
The house was festive, stem to stern;
Her husband looked at her in wonder
Then with slight concern

“When did you… why do all this?
I would have helped you know.”
“I know,” she told him simply
And then took his hand to show

The people in the village there
Amidst the Christmas lights:
Who still believe and understand
It’s not
Like other

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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